Trial By Water
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: Missing scene from "Trial By Fire." The newest Nighthawk Commando discovers the real meaning of "flying by night."


(Author's Notes…

This is yet another of those Thursday To Do's which Pam has faithfully sent to the list, in this case, 'Wet, Wetter, Wettest' where a Team member gets wet. I often have a small germ of an idea for a story and then it turns into something else. Thanks a lot, Pam! ;)

In this case, I'd always wanted to write a Nighthawk Commando story that was in-character and felt like an organic part of the _Trial By Fire_ episode, which is my favorite of the Court Martial trilogy. Heck, I think the Nighthawks could have had their own series. The original idea I had for it was Murdock goading Frankie into a hazing ritual of some kind to prove his worth…and this is what I eventually came up with.

Not to mention, I wanted to experiment with a POV other than Murdock's for a change, so unfortunately that left Frankie. This is my little way of getting back at Mr. Santana without being too mean.

It was also an experiment with something slightly more edgy than my usual Face and Murdock cotton candy. Not sure how much I succeeded.

Many, many thanks to Closetfan for beta-ing and critiquing this one. She really is an official Nighthawk Commando…)

The midnight sky swam with possibility.

Overhead, a veiled half-moon rode the curve of the sky and a handful of stars twinkled through the omnipresent smog of the Valley. It was a good night for conspiring, and for secrets, and for whispered half-truths. The kind of night that gave a lot of screenwriters a lot of really bad ideas.

Also, it was a night on which Franklin Santana was currently so nervous, he thought he might piss his pants.

Not that he'd admit it. And not, he thought, that anyone would notice if he did.  
He was just another shadow in a night already teeming with them. The all-black look was stylish. At least Crazy Man Murdock had some good ideas.  
Wearing all-black and learning a few rules and sharing secret codes was one thing. Sneaking around in the middle of the night a few miles outside a military base where his friends' court-martial was taking place, on the other hand…it was like looking at a really hot girl from across a crowded room. A feeling of giddy anticipation mixed with sheer terror.

He didn't want to ask again, but the silence was killing him more than the thought of appearing pushy.

"Where the hell are we going, anyway?"

Murdock's voice was soft, his drawl like brown sugar. "Patience, son. It's quality number fifty-eight of the Fighting Nighthawk Commandos." He didn't turn around, but beckoned Frankie to keep following him.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure quality number fifty-nine is a strong bladder, because I really gotta take a leak, and…" He stopped. Sniffed. Frowned. "I think I just stepped in dog shit, man."

His companion didn't seem to notice. Or care. That was one thing Frankie had already observed about Murdock: he only got upset when he, or one of his "boys," was on the line. Otherwise, he was as cool as the underside of a Popsicle and unflappable as a tie-down tarp.

And nuttier than a squirrel's refrigerator.

But now, Frankie was getting confused and slightly annoyed. Weren't they supposed to be getting the dirt on this mysterious Col. Quyet, or Curtis, or whoever else to save Murdock's boys? What the hell were they doing sneaking around the suburbs in the middle of the night?

"Murdock, come on, where are we going?" He whispered, a sharp edge to his voice. His bladder was throbbing by now.

"Son, we're here," Murdock said simply.

"Here" was an upscale Spanish-style home illuminated by several sets of floodlights, turning it into a ghostly mirage in the blackness. It was surrounded by sets of neatly manicured hedges where, Frankie guessed, the yearly upkeep was more than he made in three months working on a set. Beyond the wrought-iron fence was a swimming pool, glimmering aquamarine.

Frankie tried to read Murdock's expression. That was difficult even in the daylight without the added layer of greasepaint. But if he had to guess now, he'd have sworn the crazy bastard was actually excited.

He stood there, waiting for an explanation. When it was obvious one wasn't forthcoming, he ventured out. "So?"

The slightest shrug of Murdock's shoulders. "So, muchacho, this is it."

"It what?" He shivered. Southern California had her chilly nights, and this was one of them.

"This," Murdock said, pointing to the clear waters, "is where mere boys are molded into men and scraps of dross are forged into steel. This is the line in the sand Crockett and Travis and Houston drew, then said, 'We're gonna defend this piece of Texas with our blood, men.' You find yourself asking whether you're man enough for the hard life of the Nighthawk Commando. First, though, you gotta be initiated."

"Initiated?" Frankie had a bad idea where all of this was going. "Initiated like what, I go up and TP their house? You gotta be pulling my leg, man." He shook his head. "I stopped doing that crap when I stopped going trick-or-treating."

If Murdock's expression had been excitement before, it was pure glee now. "First things first. Take it off."

"Take what off?" Frankie put a hand on his knit cap. "This? My shoes? What?"

Murdock's expression, once flat, morphed into a Cheshire cat grin. "Everything, son."

He'd had slight doubts before as to whether the man really was crazy. Those were now officially obliterated. Jesus, he was crazier than a shithouse rat. "That water's gotta be freezing! You want me to die of pneumonia? How we gonna save your boys then, huh?"

Murdock had already tugged his turtleneck up over his head, revealing a pale, hairy torso. "A Fighting Nighthawk Commando does not know the meaning of the word 'freezing.' He is impervious to pain and cold and tickling and he never, ever quits."

His pants fell to the ground now. "You scared or somethin'?"

Of course he was scared. But he couldn't say so. Murdock was crazy. But beneath the many layers of insanity, he was all right. Sort of. Maybe.

"Whatever. I'm sending you any hospital bills I get," Frankie muttered,

determined to prove his manhood. This was the part he wished the pretty girl he'd imagined a few minutes before really would show up.

Maybe Murdock had done this to someone else. Maybe he, Frankie Santana, wasn't the first poor idiot he'd dragged out in the middle of the night, persuaded to strip naked, then skinny-dipped in some complete stranger's pool just so he could say he was a member of an obscure secret society.

When in Rome…L.A….yeah, yeah…

"So, you take all your friends out here?" he asked like he meant it, peeling away his clothes.

Murdock, completely bare in the cold, wasn't shivering. If anything, he looked even more determined. "This is an initiation ritual for Nighthawk Commandos only. Don't go gabbing to your drinking buddies, or I will surely know." He planted one firm finger squarely into Frankie's naked chest.

"OK, OK, I was just trying to make conversation." Nervously, Frankie slid his boxers down, wishing he had chosen a pair other than the red cartoon Garfield ones that morning. "You want to go first, or should I?"

"Rule number seven…no one ever gets left behind."

"Gotcha." Frankie hesitated. "Anything in there about scaling a wrought-iron fence stark naked?"

"You find a way, soldier. You make a way."

"Ah…huh."

One thing Frankie knew for sure about time - it always passed slower when the conditions were bad. But this wasn't just bad. This was intolerable.

"Geez, Murdock, how much longer, man?" Any more of this, and his skin and lips would be a nice shade of blue to match the waters of the swimming pool. Not to mention the horrendous shrinkage going on.

Beside him, Murdock floated serenely astride a chartreuse-and-pink Sammy the Sea Dragon pool toy. He looked crazier than ever, his hair standing on end, but almost Zenful at the same time. Apparently amused, he raised an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you can't take a little chill, son?"

Damn. He had a comeback for everything. And as long as he wasn't complaining about being in the buff in freezing water, Frankie had no right. He shrugged.  
"Where I come from, man, if it gets below 70, everybody breaks out their sweaters."

"This is a unique and important Nighthawk rite of passage. You know how many guys your age have had this experience?" Murdock asked, sounding indignant. "Relax."

But Frankie was having a hard time doing that. Their options were few right now.] He'd thought Stockwell would be his ace in the hold, but instead he'd given him the cold shoulder. The trial wasn't going their way at all. If anything was gonna get done, they'd have to be the ones to do it. If they failed, it meant a firing squad, not just for Johnny and his men, but possibly Murdock himself.

And Murdock was acting like it was all a game.

Was this how he looked danger in the eye? Like the way Johnny sometimes got all excited about playing the stupid rubber suit roles like he was Olivier or some big shot star?

"Murdock?"

"Yeah?"

"Shouldn't we be, um, trying to find this guy Quyet or something? Aren't you worried at all about your boys?" Frankie asked, trying to step delicately around his words.

"Rule number nine. A Nighthawk Commando never leaves his unit," Murdock said, more softly this time, almost to himself.

There was a side of Murdock that Frankie had also seen before. A protective side. A fierce, warrior side. He'd never leave his guys in the lurch.

Maybe Stockwell would listen to them if he begged. If he was asked the right way. Frankie couldn't imagine anyone saying no to Murdock when he got that look in his eyes.

"So, I got this idea," he volunteered, trying to change the subject and snap Murdock out of the warrior haze at the same time. Cold water was good for one thing, and that was enabling him to think more clearly. "We go…"

"…down to the JAG office, where they've probably got a dossier on our friend Col. Quyet," Murdock finished for him. "I just need your help, soldier. I hear you're pretty good with a bit of plastique and a detonator."

Frankie blinked rapidly, shocked at the unexpected compliment. "How'd you know that's what I was gonna say, man?"

Murdock, still astride Sammy, smiled grimly. "Rule number eleven…you use the allies you've got at hand, son."

"So, does that make me a Nighthawk Commando?" Strangely, he felt a swell of pride.

"You've successfully passed your initiation. Don't get too cocky; you're accepted on a probationary basis only." They shook wrinkled hands.

His words provided a surge of relief after the events and stress of the long previous day. Impulsively, Frankie reached for the Nerf ball floating beside him and flung it in the air.

It hung there for a few seconds, then landed at the side of the pool, where it bounced, bounced, bounced all the way to the sliding glass door at the patio. Immediately, an alarm began to bray.

"I thought you said you disabled that, crazy man!" whispered Frankie. Triumph gave way to panic in his chest as he dogpaddled toward the pool ladder.

"I disabled the perimeter alarm, son, not the house alarm," Murdock panted, swimming hard himself. "Rule number thirty-eight of the Nighthawk Commandos…when a perimeter is secured, don't take any unnecessary risks," he continued..

"I'll file that one under 'Wish I Knew Before.'" They both hastily exited the pool. Another sound was audible over the wailing alarm. Deep, pissed-sounding barks. From more than one dog.

"You remember how to get outta here?" Frankie felt his heart rate galloping. What would happen if the homeowner, or the dogs, caught him naked in the middle of their garden at three AM? How would he explain that one? Even the legendary Santana Charm wasn't gonna be enough there.

"Naturally," Murdock assured him. The barks were getting closer. No doubt the dogs, which sounded like hellbeasts even from this distance, were close behind.  
Where in the world did I leave my clothes? Frankie realized he couldn't remember. They were stumbling, half-running through the rhododendron bushes now. Under one of his feet, Frankie felt a familiar squish.

"_Mierda_!"

"C'mon, soldier, hustle up now," Murdock urged him. He seemed to have remembered where his clothes were. "No time to change, gotta run." He threw something at Frankie, which he recognized as his Garfield boxers.

"Wait!"

This seemed to be something Murdock had done before. He was running and hopping into his pants at the same time. It seemed a skill more suited to that friend of his, only running Frankie ever did was to get drinks for the director of whatever set he was working on at the time, or maybe to impress the girls down at the beach.

Not running for his life, wearing only his undershorts, along with a loco would-be commando from some mad-as-hell homeowner who for all he knew might shoot at him. This was crazy. This was _chalado_ crazy. This was…

Kind of, in a warped way, fun.

Johnn, and Murdock too, would eat this stuff right up. So should he.

He found himself a half-step behind Murdock, the dogs' barks receding into the distance. He could see the finish line, and it was so beau…

Splat.

One of the roots caught his foot, and Frankie sprawled into the dirt. Face-first.

When he could see again, Murdock was holding out a hand.

"Come on. You did good. I'm proud of you."

And he had. They were out of the huge yard and back on Mariposa Way, safely a block down from the house and its swimming pool and dogs. They were free. Under the sodium-vapor lamp, Frankie whooped. He wasn't cold or exhausted or stressed out right now. He just felt exhilarated.

"That was so cool, man!" He thrust a fist into the air. "I never did anything like that!"

Murdock's cool, inscrutable look was back. "I didn't expect you to pass the second phase of your test, son, but this is a night for surprises."

"Second phase?"

"That's right," Murdock said, his lips turning up ever so slightly. "Gotta swing by and pick up a new uni for you. I think yours was lost in the line of duty."  
The reality came crashing down on Frankie's head like the prop bricks they sometimes used in the movies. He had escaped with only his boxers. The rest of it, including his vest, were probably dog chow by now.

He looked at himself in the side mirror of a Nova. Flushed from his run, his hair much less sleek than usual. Coppery skin painted for battle. He liked the way it made him look.

"I don't have to worry about greasepaint again, do I?" he asked.

Murdock was already walking up Mariposa Way, towards the JAG office below them in the valley. He didn't turn around, but Frankie heard his low drawl anyway.

"That ain't greasepaint, soldier…"

_Oh, mierda!_

_Fini_


End file.
